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bangtanexchange2015-06-12 11:18 am
bangtanmod) wrote in bangtanexchange2015-06-12 11:18 am
Entry tags:
04. if we were birds
Title: if we were birds
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lucitae
Pairing: seokjin/jimin
Rating: pg-13
Word count: 513
Song used: tomorrow instrumental
Warnings: imagery of death and violence. second person pov.
Author's notes: originally written for sei; post-apocalyptic universe where mutants are still abundant. i debated about expanding beyond this ficlet but sentiment is detriment and the self-containment seems self-sufficient. perhaps one day i will revisit this piece.
Summary: all things should be carefully balanced upon a precipice; seokjin’s soul is one of these things.
Torrential rain without an inkling of clear skies. Three days straight and one would think that the clouds were done dumping their burden onto mankind — or what was left of it. Partially constructed buildings are identical to those who gave way to ruins, to reduced rubble; skeletal frames advertising momentary shelter, as if steel structures provided any comfort after an apocalypse.
You take up the offer: the sanctuary in the sky (or as close as it can get). You court death, dangling legs over the edge where the wall has long fallen to the ground, some twenty stories away, balanced on the edge of delirium as voices fill your head. They threaten to pull you under, drown in images like you have done again and again. You would think that after a while it gets numb but it is dread that seeks you out in the guise of comfort.
There’s a distinct pop behind you like the air has compressed and fizzled out, a sound so familiar, a sound that announces the presence of the teleport. “Save me,” they say (and you do too, in your own way, silently) as you pat the cement floor beside you.
He’s the same as always, a fresh breeze, a change of pace, a distraction (they cry for your attention and you struggle to keep conscious). He’s the only one who knows: the pattern of seclusion, less about irritation of the masses and more about keep others away from harm, the unheard prayers that nightmares would end. Or, at the very least, sever ties so that the surfacing images of death wouldn’t chip away at your heart bit by bit.
If this place is your sanctuary then solace is where you intertwine your fingers with Jimin’s.
You let your head go under water.
There’s a barrel pressed against your head and tears trickling down your face as you beg please. It never works yet your eyes won’t shut either. It’s the face of a foe from one of the gangs eyeing territory and resources you share with those you call friends. You know the scar that mars his face, Hoseok’s trademark in tiger skin and
You know the voice that escapes from your lips; cry out her name when the bullet lodges into your brain.
There’s a gentle squeeze to the hand when you slip into the next, courting death yet again in an unfamiliar landscape. The warmth radiating from your side serving as a reminder that your identity is separate from the images that flood your head, a guide as you experience death and select the ones for future reference — ones to inflict upon those who have taken loved ones away.
No mercy. Eyes will harden and fists will tighten once the foot leaves the precinct of these four (barely existing) walls. But for now, you allow weakness to surface as you rest your head against Jimin’s shoulder and be mesmerized by how even the grayest of clouds can’t obscure beauty. You pray you’ll never have to experience his demise (for you, too, will surely follow).
Author:
lucitaePairing: seokjin/jimin
Rating: pg-13
Word count: 513
Song used: tomorrow instrumental
Warnings: imagery of death and violence. second person pov.
Author's notes: originally written for sei; post-apocalyptic universe where mutants are still abundant. i debated about expanding beyond this ficlet but sentiment is detriment and the self-containment seems self-sufficient. perhaps one day i will revisit this piece.
Summary: all things should be carefully balanced upon a precipice; seokjin’s soul is one of these things.
Torrential rain without an inkling of clear skies. Three days straight and one would think that the clouds were done dumping their burden onto mankind — or what was left of it. Partially constructed buildings are identical to those who gave way to ruins, to reduced rubble; skeletal frames advertising momentary shelter, as if steel structures provided any comfort after an apocalypse.
You take up the offer: the sanctuary in the sky (or as close as it can get). You court death, dangling legs over the edge where the wall has long fallen to the ground, some twenty stories away, balanced on the edge of delirium as voices fill your head. They threaten to pull you under, drown in images like you have done again and again. You would think that after a while it gets numb but it is dread that seeks you out in the guise of comfort.
There’s a distinct pop behind you like the air has compressed and fizzled out, a sound so familiar, a sound that announces the presence of the teleport. “Save me,” they say (and you do too, in your own way, silently) as you pat the cement floor beside you.
He’s the same as always, a fresh breeze, a change of pace, a distraction (they cry for your attention and you struggle to keep conscious). He’s the only one who knows: the pattern of seclusion, less about irritation of the masses and more about keep others away from harm, the unheard prayers that nightmares would end. Or, at the very least, sever ties so that the surfacing images of death wouldn’t chip away at your heart bit by bit.
If this place is your sanctuary then solace is where you intertwine your fingers with Jimin’s.
You let your head go under water.
There’s a barrel pressed against your head and tears trickling down your face as you beg please. It never works yet your eyes won’t shut either. It’s the face of a foe from one of the gangs eyeing territory and resources you share with those you call friends. You know the scar that mars his face, Hoseok’s trademark in tiger skin and
You know the voice that escapes from your lips; cry out her name when the bullet lodges into your brain.
There’s a gentle squeeze to the hand when you slip into the next, courting death yet again in an unfamiliar landscape. The warmth radiating from your side serving as a reminder that your identity is separate from the images that flood your head, a guide as you experience death and select the ones for future reference — ones to inflict upon those who have taken loved ones away.
No mercy. Eyes will harden and fists will tighten once the foot leaves the precinct of these four (barely existing) walls. But for now, you allow weakness to surface as you rest your head against Jimin’s shoulder and be mesmerized by how even the grayest of clouds can’t obscure beauty. You pray you’ll never have to experience his demise (for you, too, will surely follow).